A Wayward Game

by Pandora Witzmann

  He hesitates, and his hand closes over mine, over his heart.

  “I’m thinking about you,” he says unexpectedly. “I’m worried about you.”

  “You don’t have to worry about me, Neil.”

  “Don’t I? I’m not so sure about that.” He sighs, and looks back at the ceiling. “It’s funny, you know. You tell me not to be ashamed, but you’re always ashamed on your own account. You’re ashamed of being human, of having feelings. Sometimes your defences are lowered, though, and I get a feeling for the real person inside. That happened this evening. I felt it. Something in you just switched off, or switched on. Suddenly you weren’t dominant anymore.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “God, you don’t have to apologise. I like to feel that I’m seeing the real person. And even if I didn’t, you don’t exist just to fulfil my fantasies.”

  “I don’t want to destroy them either.”

  “You haven’t. You’ve just added a new layer to them, that’s all.” He looks at me again, and smiles. “It really doesn’t bother me, you know, to think that you’re just a human being. In fact, I’d like you a lot less if I thought otherwise.”

  I kiss him on the lips, very lightly. He puts his hand on the back of my head and pulls me closer, and begins to kiss me back. It’s a tender kiss, the kind of kiss that is exchanged by lovers. Yet how can there be love unless there is trust? What really lies behind those kisses? Just another game? – a much more dangerous, much more frightening game? I don’t know. And allowing this to continue, and leaving myself open to every possible betrayal, is the most risky, most potentially harmful, thing I have ever done with this man.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Neil is sleeping quietly, undisturbed by dreams and reality alike. This is the second night we have spent together, sleeping in the same bed, doing all the things that normal couples supposedly do. It feels strange to us; we are still at that stage when we’re trying to get to know each other, and we frequently feel awkward and unsure of ourselves. And yet these have been amongst the happiest days and nights of my life.

  They have also been amongst the most difficult. The questions posed by my encounter with Mr Walsh swirl relentlessly in my brain, and they have not yet been answered. I wonder whether I am the victim of some elaborate and heartless game here, and whether I am putting myself in danger. And yet I go on living beside Neil, sleeping with him, and pretending that all is well.

  Sleeping in the same bed as someone else is not necessarily sexual, but it is always intimate. You are at your most vulnerable in sleep. You dream, mumble unguarded words, and are prey to the physical frailties of snoring and drooling, all the things that have no place in our idealised versions of ourselves. You are also physically vulnerable, open to any threat. Sleeping beside someone is an affirmation of trust and affection, or at least should be. That is why unhappy couples move to separate beds, even as new lovers seek every opportunity to share their beds. And Neil and I are, I suppose, new lovers – in a sense, at least. Physical intimacy is not new to us, but emotional intimacy is.

  Neil fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the pillow, and is now lying on his back, snoring lightly. I, however, cannot drift off into sleep, however much I wish to. At last, in the early hours, I give in, get up, and creep out of the bedroom. Half-past three, according to the clock, and all the world is silent. Lonely hours, but I love them. Even in London, it is quiet; the world seems strangely muted and softened. I go to the living room window, draw aside the curtain, and look out into the street. There is nobody there now, nobody lurking in the shadows, and no waiting car; only the flickering glow of a streetlamp, a glaring neon light in a shop window, and scraps of rubbish. If Neil is right, and someone really is watching me, there is no sign of him at this hour. Even spies, I suppose, have to sleep.

  I sit down on the sofa, put on some headphones, and begin to listen to Corelli’s Concerto Grosso. The music is perfect, as intricate as a puzzle box, almost mathematical in its precision – the kind of music in which everything is assigned to its proper place, and nothing jars. A perfect choice, when you need to think clearly. As the music weaves through my brain and soothes my nerves, I lie back on the sofa and think, reviewing my situation. I feel, as I have for weeks, that somehow this situation is coming to a crisis. Curiously, the thought does not frighten me greatly; it is almost a relief to think that, one way or another, things will soon be resolved. For too long I have felt trapped, incapable of moving either forward or back, and anything that occurs to break this deadlock will be welcome.

  Of course, the question of what exactly will happen is one that I can’t help considering. I have been watching Sallow, testing his story, trying to pick holes in it. More to the point, he probably knows what I have been doing. Sallow has private investigators working for him, and it would in any case take only a basic internet search to reveal that Katherine Argyle, the journalist whose career was wrecked after she wrote a supposedly libellous article on the Diane Meath-Jones case, is the same Katherine Argyle who studied alongside Diane, and lived in the same Hall of Residence as her. I think of all the electronic detritus I have left behind in cyberspace over the years: old CVs, pen portraits and quick biographical sketches, articles, Facebook updates, tweets and blog posts. A virtual trail that reveals, perhaps, far more than I ever intended it to. Sallow might not know the exact nature of my relationship with Diane – she would never have told him, certainly – but he might have other sources of information. And – the thought chills me – now that Neil knows, who else might find out? Besides, Diane might have mentioned me in passing, or said that we were friends. I met her several times even after she got together with Sallow, after all; even when our affair was over, we remained friends.

  I close my eyes, and allow memories to wash over me. Some are faded, washed out like old clothes. Others are so intact that I can almost imagine that time has turned back on itself, or that it never moved on at all.

  Diane is sitting opposite me in the busy London coffee shop, picking at a sandwich. She is not pregnant yet, but James Sallow has already entered her life, and his power over her is growing. She is still working in her research job, and is dressed smartly, like a businesswoman: a grey trouser suit, a red silk top, and red shoes. Everything is obviously expensive, designed to convey wealth and good taste. Her brown hair is cut into a sharp bob, and straightened. This is everything that she has wanted and worked for from the time she was an impoverished teenager, I know; and yet I also think that I am seeing a compromised Diane, who has adopted so much of other people’s preferences and ways that she has almost forgotten who she really is. Sallow’s influence? She is quick to deny it.

  “He doesn’t tell me what to do,” she tells me, smiling across the table. Her smile is too bright, too tight. “I’m still in charge of my own life, Katherine. It’s just that he and I happen to want the same things.”

  “Really?”

  “Of course. Look, I’ve never lied to you, Katherine: I want to have a good life. I want money and respect and all the things that people normally want, and I’m not going to pretend otherwise or apologise for it. Since when was ambition a crime?”

  “You’ve changed almost everything about yourself, Diane. Even your accent is different.”

  Diane is silent for a moment, tearing her sandwich into two smaller pieces. She’s hardly eaten a thing, I notice; she’s slimmer than she ever was before, almost thin.

  “You know,” she says at last, “I’ll say this for being born into poverty: you get a very good idea of the value of things, and at an early age. You don’t understand, Katherine. You can afford to be superior about all of this, because you know that, if it all goes wrong, your nice middle-class parents will be there to help you out with loans, a place to live, all of that. You can afford to be indifferent to success, because you don’t need it. You’ve always been comfortable. I’ve never had that. Who can I rely on? My mother? She can barely even look after herself.”

&n
bsp; “And James will?”

  “Yes, I think he will.”

  I want to believe her, almost, and try to believe her. But I can’t quite accept what she’s saying as the truth. She has walked into this relationship with a man she barely knows or understands, and already she is deferring to him in everything, adopting his manners and outlook and lifestyle without question. She is playing at being someone other than the girl who had holes in her clothes when she was growing up and didn’t eat out at a restaurant until she was eighteen. I can understand why she might. But the problem, I think, is that nobody can live their entire life under the shadow of lies. Lies have a habit of catching up with you, even if you can sustain them, which most people can’t. But what can I say? I don’t have the courage or conviction to tell her my thoughts. It’s her life. We’re not together anymore. She’s free to do as she wishes, and to make her own mistakes.

  Suddenly the vision shifts, and I’m walking through a busy London street. Cars and taxis inch past on the road, and pedestrians weave in and out of one another. Diane isn’t here anymore, and I think she must have gone back to work. I turn a corner, and suddenly, in the irrational way of dreams, find that I’m in Bucklock Wood. It’s quiet and still out here. The sky is grey, and the path muddy; I look down at my impractical work shoes, and wonder why I didn’t wear something more functional.

  Frieda, peering out from between the trees, gives me a look of mystery. “It’s all right,” she says. “Diane isn’t here. But watch your step anyway.”

  “Why?”

  “Because somebody else is here.”

  I walk on until I reach Waken Mere. The lake is grey under the cloudy sky, empty even of the birds that usually congregate there. Too many deaths have taken place here, I think; it’s cursed ground, nothing can live here. So many people killed and buried out here, at least according to Neil – if I can believe a word he says. I stand staring out over the water, and see someone standing on the opposite shore. I’m too far away to see who it is, but something about the figure is familiar, and threatening. It raises its hand, either in greeting or warning, and suddenly a scream rips through the still air.

  I wake up and find myself lying on the sofa. A car alarm has gone off in the street below, that’s all. My heart thuds against my ribs as I sit up. The music has ended; I’ve been lying here listening to the low hiss of nothing. And I wonder if that is what death is like. Not knowing that it’s all ended, not knowing anything at all; just silence and darkness and emptiness, forever.

  ~

  Neil wakes at seven o’clock, and we eat breakfast together before he showers and gets ready for the day ahead. He’s quiet, unobtrusive, neat; he tidies the bathroom after he has used it, and makes no particular demands. He’s like a very well-behaved and polite guest, and something about this saddens me; I would prefer it, I think, if he were to be more relaxed and less respectful.

  Before leaving, he takes a quick look outside, searching for any sign of someone watching the flat.

  “Nothing,” he says, closing the window. “Nothing that I can see, at any rate. If anything happens, though, or you feel worried, give me a call.”

  After he has left, the atmosphere in the flat grows barren and stale. I feel restless and uneasy, without quite knowing why. I stand at the window drinking coffee, watching the cars slip past on the street. Eventually I log on to www.whathappenedtodiane.org. I read Lurker’s message again, and type out a reply.

  Lurker,

  I’m reluctant to reveal my true identity, even to my fellow forum members, for very sound (and potentially legal) reasons. I’m sure you can understand that. James Sallow is, apart from anything, notoriously litigious.

  As you say, openly stating that Sallow was involved in Diane’s disappearance is libellous, given that he has never faced criminal charges. However, a vital principle of free speech might be at stake here. Given the evidence that appears to implicate him, is one not even allowed to raise the possibility that he was involved? This is a question that must be asked. And the journalist, in my view, does not provide answers, primarily; he or she asks questions. Sometimes we ask the wrong questions, and sometimes we fail to receive any reply, but our basic function remains the same. If journalists are not allowed to pose questions, then vital ideals such as freedom of speech and freedom of the press come under threat.

  I, and others like me, are not levelling accusations at Sallow for no reason other than mischief or spite. There is very compelling evidence that he was involved in Diane’s disappearance. If I hadn’t looked at that evidence carefully, weighed it in my own mind, and felt convinced that it pointed to a particular theory, then I would never make any public accusations against Sallow. The evidence against him may not be strong enough to get him into court. But it nevertheless exists, and it has never been satisfactorily accounted for.

  I’d be inclined to doubt your statement that Sallow’s life has been ruined by Diane’s disappearance. When she vanished, he was rid of someone who had become extremely troublesome to him. By all accounts he had no intention of becoming a conventional husband or father, and Diane and the baby cast a shadow over his projected future. Had he not been suspected of any involvement, his parliamentary ambitions might just as easily have been enhanced by Diane’s disappearance; a personal tragedy might have humanised him, won the sympathy vote. Even now, there is a possibility that, in the long term, none of his aspirations will be damaged by what has happened. People have short memories, even when it comes to cases like this, and Diane Meath-Jones is already a fading memory for most people. Sallow had ridden out the storm so far, and can probably ride it out to the very end. His team of private investigators are, I think, just as likely to be employed in keeping an eye on his detractors rather than actively searching for Diane.

  Regarding Sallow’s alibi, by the way – I have reasons for suspecting Martin Stevenson’s honesty and reliability. If he did not in fact see Diane on the morning of June 16th, that would of course put an entirely different complexion on matters.

  When I’ve typed and sent my reply, I make my way back to the main forum, which is already warming up in preparation for another day of chat and theorising. Many of the regulars – Dreamsnatcher, Valley Girl, Lookwest – are there, along with Phillip, the newbie. I click on a new thread about Martin Stevenson’s sighting, and am surprised to find that my own doubts are being repeated by Phillip:

  There’s something a little strange about Martin Stevenson’s sighting, if you ask me. By Stevenson’s own account to the police, he had only seen Diane a few times before, and yet he had no hesitation in identifying her as the woman he saw on June 16th. He also admitted that he only saw her for a few seconds, and at a distance, at a time when he wasn’t paying much attention to what was happening around him. Even more peculiarly, though, he waited until the 21st to come forward and talk to the police. For five whole days, during which the media storm was at its height and you could barely turn on the TV or walk into a newsagent’s without seeing or hearing something about Diane, he said nothing.

  How, then, can he state with such certainty that the woman he saw (if indeed he saw anyone) was Diane?

  I suppose he could simply have been mistaken. However, in that case one might expect that he would be less confident in his identification. I can’t help but wonder, frankly, if he was trying to mislead the police with his supposed sighting.

  This, of course, leads to the question of why. Stevenson, so far as I’m aware, has no personal connection with Sallow. Quite why else he would agree to lie to the police is a matter of conjecture. Money? Could be.

  The point, though, is this: if Stevenson’s sighting was either inaccurate or untrue, that in turn leaves open the possibility that Diane disappeared prior to ten o’clock on June 16th – and that, of course, removes Sallow’s alibi.

  It’s strange, I think, that Phillip’s concerns seem to mirror my own so exactly. But, of course, this is what happens on such forums: ideas and impressions come together,
and narratives are expanded and refined. I click “Reply”, and type out an answer:

  I couldn’t agree more, Phillip. Sadly, Stevenson has stuck to his story from the beginning, and he has never changed or deviated from it. Some say this points to its veracity; I say it’s just as likely to be the result of rehearsal, of knowing in advance precisely what he had to say and committing the details to memory. I doubt he’ll change his version of events any time soon. We can’t be sure why, though personally I suspect that money might be a factor. Well-appointed restaurants in Richmond do not come cheap.

  This is why, when I’m feeling pessimistic, I think that there will never be justice for Diane. Too many people are involved, and there is too much at stake. Money, power, greed – it’s a lethal combination, and a nasty business all round.

  Martin Stevenson is, in essence, just an ordinary man, but he served a purpose and has probably been richly rewarded for it. Every man, it seems, has his price.

  I wonder how these people can sleep at night?

  As I hit “Post”, I find myself thinking that the internet, though commonly known as the web, is in fact more like a labyrinth. It meanders and twists, and turns back on itself, and reaches shadowy dead ends; there is no one fixed centre, and multiple entry and exit points. This labyrinth, moreover, is in a constant state of flux; it is constantly being altered, refined, demolished and rebuilt. All of this takes place silently, almost invisibly, so that one can never really retrace one’s steps or cover the same ground twice. And the people one encounters in that labyrinth are indistinct figures indeed, illusory shadows of their real selves, and possibly not to be trusted.